From the Dome of Stars
by Dawn Searcher
Summary: Palantíri are not meant to be toyed with, but that does not mean they would not be. The consequences are unforeseeable...First LotR fic, no longer continued, mild Mary-Sue warning
1. Part One Chapter One

Here's a fic for all those of us who wonder what exactly happened to the _palantíri_ of Minas Ithil and Osgiliath. I have read the books, but please correct me for inaccuracies. This chronicles a very strange person whose path crosses in a very odd way with the _palantíri._ I hope you find this story interesting, and the author-added elements not too unbelievable. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own neither Middle-Earth nor anything in it. They belong to the wonderful Mr. Tolkien. I do own the Nameless Character, whom you'll meet in just a little while.

**From the Dome of Stars**

**PART ONE: HOMECOMING**

**Chapter One**

_As with many great tales, this one begins at the end._

The improvised staff finally split down the middle, and caused its owner to fall onto the dusty, pebbly road. The nine black birds that followed her from Minas Morgul broke their formation, and began to circle continually up in the high heavens, and warned just about every creature, fair or foul, of her presence. She would not even raise a hand to bid them to leave, for she needed every morsel of energy to return to Osgiliath.

Using the now much more slender staff, she managed to prop herself up, but immediately fell down again when she tripped on the overlong cloak she had on. It had been bright crimson once, crimson and almost glowing with power atop the Dark Tower of Mordor. Her knee-length shirt was probably black, though it appeared sooty grey with its coating of Gorgoroth ashes. From this she tore off a strip and wrapped it around her hand, to cover the gash on it and to protect it from splinters of the now rough staff. She paid, however, much more thought to the object in her other hand. It was a perfectly round, black stone, the heart of which seemed to glow. She clutched it against her hollow stomach, taking care not to drop the heavy thing.

As fast as she could she continued down the road, until she collapsed and dropped the stone. The sun was only at midday, and she still had a long way to go. Despite her hunger, thirst and exhaustion, she crawled towards Osgiliath, rolling the stone before her until it was as coated with dust as she was. In the earlier part of her journey she had carried it in a helm, but such protection proved too heavy after Minas Morgul as so was abandoned. Still, it was difficult to move one foot (and one hand) in front of another while her mind screamed the call of the Tower that she served. She willed herself to move forward, until she glimpsed a great stone roof belonging to Osgiliath. It was far off yet, but she spotted two guards walking her way, probably unaware of the dying person. There was not moisture in her mouth to call out, so she raised her hand in a final effort to grab their attention. She clutched the stone to her chest and passed out.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Gandalf leant down and examined the red cloak. He did not dare touch it, for the guard who removed it from the wretch now had great pain in his hands, gloved though they were. It was without doubt that of the Dark Lord that was, and this troubled him greatly. The semi-dead creature had worn this without any apparent damage to her person. If this signified she was a servant of the Shadow, then the Seeing-Stone she had is most likely that of Minas Morgul, recovered from ruins of Barad-dûr. He gingerly picked up the cloak on the end of his staff, took the _palantír, _and started back to Osgiliath hoping nothing bad had happened in his absence.

He found one of the guards sitting in the shade of a ruined wall, drinking some water to alleviate the heat of the sun. Gandalf bade him to watch over the cloak, then made him repeat his discovery of the servant of the Shadow, but there wasn't much more information to by discovered. He would have thought her just some exhausted, directionless minion who managed her way out or Mordor, save the fact that she carried one of the _palantíri. _When pondering again the meaning of this, the guard interrupted his thought:

'Lord? There's something you might want to see…'

The guard lead Gandalf to an ancient stone house that looked on the verge of collapsing on them. Once they passed the two sentries at the door, Gandalf saw that there was no need to worry, for the roof had already given in. The prisoner lied in the middle of the floor, in an area cleared of rubble. The guard brushed away some discoloured hair from her forehead with a gauntleted hand, and whispered, 'look at this'.

It was a healing cut, in the shape of the Lidless Eye. This proves whence she came beyond doubt. As it was, Gandalf decided to stay himself until she awakens, so he might question her about the _palantír,_ and the reason of her journey from Mordor. With his foresight, he could sense that it was going to be an interesting story. Gandalf settled himself on one of the more rounded pieces of rock and prepared for a long wait.

He took out his pipe and began to smoke calmly, as if resting again in the jolly land of the Shire, while she passed out of unconsciousness and into deep sleep instead.

Author's Note: I'll try as hard as I can to stick to the timeline of the books, although I might eventually have to bend some things. This is my first Lord of the Rings fic, so please feel free to correct my mistakes. Thank you, dear reader.


	2. Part One Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Me no own Lord of the Rings. The sheer horror of that fact just scared all the grammar out of me.

**Chapter Two**

_In which the Nameless is admitted into Minas Tirith._

She awoke to thirst, hunger, dizzying heat, and a hard surface beneath a bruised shoulder. In other words, same as usual for the past months, except the hard surface was smoother and colder this time.

A voice, nearly as smooth and cold as the floor, asked: 'Are you awake?' in response, she forced her eyelids open.

The first thought that crossed his mind was that she resembled Gollum. Although she had none of the creature's agility or strength, her grey eyes were similarly haunted and had an almost luminous look. As she struggled into a sitting position in the dust, he prepared to question her.

'Who are you?' he asked her. Instead of replying, she made feeble gestures of drinking and pointed at her throat. Gandalf made one of the sentries fill a bottle from the storehouse with river-water, and the prisoner fell upon it at once. She spat out a smooth rock, and then drank liberally. She swallowed the last mouthful with a particular look of enjoyment.

'Thank thee, lord Mithrandir. This water of the Great River Anduin, 'tis most sweet and fresh. Thou wouldst know who I am?' here she paused, looking quite more troubled than before. 'I am a daughter of Men. My good father was a soldier of Gondor and my mother was a planter of wheat. Rest assured, I am no villain turning from her former allies.'

Gandalf knew she spoke the truth, and relaxed a little more as most of his doubts fell away. 'Tell me from whence you came, and why. And worry not, you do not have to speak so formally, for you are not a foe, not have you ever served Evil willingly, and thus are among friends.' His lips formed a small smile.

She let out a long breath, but did not smile. 'From Mordor, my lord, as you have probably guessed, and correctly. I had once lived in this very city, the fair and prosperous Osgiliath, but now I see that it has fallen into ruin. Alas! It was most beautiful, this city of stone.' She frowned, and asked: 'what year is this, my lord Mithrandir?'

'It is the year three thousand and nineteen of the Third Age.' her frown deepened.

'That long? Surely 'tis not. Yet I do feel the years that have passed…' she whispered to herself, while Gandalf did some calculations in his mind. If she had lived in Osgiliath, the latest date possible was the year two thousand, four hundred and seventy-five. He was just about to ask her to clarify when she asked timidly: 'May I tell you something? It concerns the _palantír_, which I see you have by your side. The full tale is long and full of woe, but here I ask for your help in understanding some parts…'

'Why, certainly.' And she whispered into his ear a few choice sentences, which did indeed clarify the matter a little. However, he would need to delve into research again to find the truth of this Tower of which she spoke, if that would help at all.

'But now that you are free, what would you do and whence would you go? For it seems to me you have neither kin to take you, nor indeed any property of your own. Bear in mind that you will still be regarded as an enemy of Gondor. The people are still wary, and distrustful of those who claim to have escaped from Mordor.'

'Then I shall go to the King Elessar, and hear his fair judgement. Nay, I will not be turned aside by my own country when I have finally returned.'

'Your decision is well.' Gandalf stood up, and so did the woman. 'I would go with you, but perhaps you would like some rest beforehand? You may stay at Osgiliath tonight, if you so choose.'

'Thank you, my lord. I accept you kind offer and am very grateful.' Here she finally smiled, albeit it showed a great weariness, the winced. 'Although I wouldn't say no to some food right now.'

When the next morning dawned, she was standing by the river and gazing into its waters. Its currents flowed relentlessly, past the stone underneath her feet and continued for many miles until they reached the sea. How she loved the gentle wind blowing by, the comforting presence of food in her stomach, and the absence of dust in her skin! For many years she has endured the harsh winds, poor nourishment, and gritty dust of Mordor, and this moment by the river seemed most exquisite. She made her way to one of the temporary bridges that stretched over the water, where Gandalf waited on a white horse. Together they headed towards Minas Tirith, Minas Anor that was.

When they had left the city behind them, she sighed and shifted her leather bag uncomfortably. In it were the clothes she had come in, and also the red cloak. They were in such poor condition that she was almost immediately given a shirt and breeches along with the food. Only her shoes were not broken down, it seems.

She looked over to Gandalf, who rode Shadowfax at a leisurely pace, and considered conversation. However, she still felt a little faint from the exertion only days before, and decided against it. When they finally spoke, it was past noon and they were resting after a meal. They had already passed the wall that encircled the city a while ago, and can now clearly see the gate of Minas Tirith. She fumbled with the bandages on her hand for a while, then asked: 'lord Mithrandir, have you looked in the _palantír_?'

'Indeed I have, but nothing new can be said of it. Shall we depart?'

So they continued towards the city, taking only a few rests on the way. In the late afternoon they passed through the gate, which still had no doors, and climbed the levels of the city, occasionally passing piles of rubble that have not yet been cleared. By the time they reached the King's hall underneath the tower of Ecthelion, she was again feeling utterly exhausted. However, she walked past the guards with Gandalf, and continued down the long stone hall, and finally set her eyes on the King Elessar.

He was a magnificent sight indeed, everything from the jewelled, winged crown on his head to the black-sheathed sword at his side to the solid throne on which he sat. She knelt hastily before him, and said: 'long live the King, who is at last returned!'

'And who would you be, lady?' he enquired.

'One who would ask for your pardon.' Said Gandalf. 'She has long been in unwilling service to the Lord of Mordor, and has travelled back to the kingdom of her birth to perhaps resume life as she had known it.'

'Unwilling, you say? Then she is forgiven. However, I would ask this,' the King looked directly at her, 'would you choose to serve a different master?'

'If thee wouldst allow me. It would be a great honour to work for thy causes, if my services be required.'

'Then you may go through yonder door, to be assigned a suitable job.' He gestured towards a small door in the side of the hall.

She stood up. 'Thank thee, my good King. May thou rule in peace.' Her footsteps echoed as she made her way towards the door. She stepped through to find a woman with a rosy and kind face smiling at her. The woman looked at her as if sizing her up, and she was mildly annoyed, for she was short for someone of Númenorean descent.

'And what is your name, lady? For you have not mentioned it to the lords in the hall.' The woman asked.

'They call me Sayre.' She replied, and they began walking down a long hallway.

'So how might you make yourself useful? Although with that hand, it might be a while before you can help. You'd been eager to redeem yourself, I wager?' the woman frowned, as if still sensing the evil Sayre had served. Inwardly, Sayre was glad that she had cut her hair, to cover the hideous mark on her forehead until it healed. It would not do to have it showing around Minas Tirith.

'Yes,' she replied, 'yes I am. Perhaps I can help in the bakeries? I have had some experience with working there…'she trailed off, as the delicious smell of cooking food wafted through the hallway.

Sayre felt finally at home.

Not her real name. Sayre is a mispronunciation of something else, which will be better explained in a later chapter.

Author's Note: I know this is a slow start, but there's only one more intro chapter left before the main body begins. Bear with me, and review please.


	3. Part One Chapter Three

Disclaimer: no more disclaimers from now on.

**Chapter Three**

_In which a secret is revealed after more than a thousand years._

It was a grey and misty morning, and the fog was so thick that she felt it would support her weight if she cared to test it. However, Sayre dared not, for she sat directly beside a terrible fall to the sixth level of the city. She settled with simply taking in the views of the land; from here she could see Osgiliath, which was being rebuilt, and shadows of the mountains of Mordor.

A year has passed since she took up a position in the bakeries, a year that felt longer than any of the centuries she had endured. She could almost feel time slip by like some precious, invisible stream. It felt as if she had never been to places more treacherous than she had dared imagine, and that she had stayed here for all her life. She could remember now the laughter of her mother as she listened to her friend the baker, and the deceit said baker-

Foul servant with a fair face 

-Had pulled over them all. She felt no anger; just regret that the young are so naïve.

The echoing patter of hooves wakened her from recollection. She looked over the wall, and smiled grimly, but with a trace of hope.

Gandalf has returned.

When he was finished in discussion with the king, around noon, Gandalf exited the hall to find Sayre waiting patiently by the doors. Although her demeanour seemed calm, there was a sort of urgency in her movements, and in her eyes.

'Welcome back, my lord Mithrandir. You have had a pleasant journey, I hope?'

'That would depend solely on one's view of "pleasant", but I have learnt much, and am satisfied.' Sayre's eyes widened in understanding. So the few secrets she had divulged have proven useful, it seems. And the answers are so near…

She followed Gandalf to his lodgings, and they settled themselves in front of a large window, with a table between them. Sayre laid a wrapped loaf of bread, fresh from the morning's batch, onto the stone table. Gandalf regarded this with amusement, his moustache quivering.

'I will not be persuaded to give away information with a loaf of bread, Sayre.'

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. 'So you have found the answers about the Tower. I was beginning to suspect you are losing your touch.'

'That certainly I am not. As for your answers, listen to this tale:

You have undoubtedly heard of the Seven Seeing Stones, and know that the greatest of them was located under the Dome of Stars, in the once-charming Osgiliath.

In the year fourteen hundred and thirty-seven, Osgiliath was burned and the Stone was lost during the Kin-Strife, or so we are informed. However, it was later found by a poor fisherman in his net, which he was dragging along the bottom of a shallower part of the Great River, near its mouth. It was large, and heavy, but he was able to haul it in his boat. He knew not what it was, for even in the olden times the Stones were a well-guarded secret, and foolishly kept it. It was apparently passed down in the family as an heirloom. Not more could be learnt of this.

Almost five hundred years later the Stone - I presume it was the same one - was seized by the enemies of Gondor, the Wainriders from the East. It passed its time in obscurity, amongst hoards of other loot, until it was happened upon by a sorcerer, or a servant of one. I know not who he was, or if he had any other deeds to his name, but I know he was not of the _Istari _and for that I am glad, for he seemed supremely unwise in his uses of the Seeing Stone.

The _palantíri _were made with ideas of the seeking of knowledge and truth, and the merging of minds. Those ideas were moulded and fitted inside the stones by a powerful being, so that the Stones contained them in a state usable by any outsider. I know not how he managed it, but the sorcerer somehow _dislodged _the ideas, or so to speak. He possibly did so in an attempt to seek out the future. The stone was left empty, and the powerful ideas…'

Sayre had a horrible sinking feeling inside her stomach, but she held her tongue, and kept on reminding herself that all the hardship has passed.

'…Took up residence elsewhere. The Tower of Truth that you spoke of, Sayre, is a mental manifestation of them.'

'But why me?' She blurted. 'It was many centuries before my time, and I do not see why the ideas would lurk for that long.'

'I think that you were not the only one who has had access to this. The ideas are drawn to honesty, Sayre. They possibly sought out the most truthful being nearest them.'

It dawned on her. _The young are naïve…_

'And in death they simply pass on to the next being?' She enquired eagerly, and in wonder.

'I believe so. I have travelled far into the East, but the information available was extremely fragmented. It seems that most people never realize the presence of the Tower, or never told anyone about it.'

'Alas!' Sayre sighed. 'To have lived in the times of the arising Shadow, and to have a spy find out about the Tower!'

'All that has passed into history, so do not linger over them any longer, after you have told me your tale. This is a good day to listen to a story, and we have a long time yet.' It was indeed. The sun shined brightly in a pale summer sky, and a cool breeze flowed through the window. It did not, Sayre reflected, feel like the correct atmosphere for her story.

'It is very long, my lord. The points I have told you are merely the rough guide.' She sighed again. 'But perhaps I can bring myself to relate it, after we have eaten some of this bread.' Gandalf smiled, and Sayre felt strangely relieved.

She unwrapped the food, and they each took a slice. Before his entered his mouth, Gandalf suddenly put it back and stood up. He strode over to a corner, where he had deposited his travelling bags, and took one with an irregular something inside it. This he gave to Sayre, who gasped when she withdrew the object.

It was a helm that has possibly saved her life. She had used it to carry the Ithil Stone, and had dropped it after Minas Morgul.

This black helm had once belonged to Sauron.

Sayre took one very long and ponderous look at it, then drew a deep breath and began her story.

Author's Note: the part about the Osgiliath Stone I completely made up. You decide if it's realistic or not. Research indicates it could work. We will be commencing Part Two next chapter, and it will be the bulk of this story. Let us just assume that it was recorded later by Sayre, and that the version she told to Gandalf was much shorter.


	4. Part Two Chapter One

**PART TWO: SEER**

**Chapter One**

_T. A. 2475_

No, actually. Although that is the year in which to more interesting part of my story begins, we must backtrack to T.A. 2471. You wanted to hear the story in its entirety, and anyway I think these parts should not be neglected.

_T. A. 2471_

As a modest girl of five years, my mother finally deemed me responsible enough to accompany her to the city of Minas Tirith. Although Osgiliath was in fact closer to where we lived, she had to do something I vaguely recalled as 'Making a Profit.' Apparently the price at which she could sell her goods was much higher there.

My brother, thankfully, was not to come with us. I was very happy about this, because being only four years, he had as many questions as there were stars in the sky. I must admit I had about twice as many, but at least mine did not involve finger pointing and wailing. Thus, that particular day with my mother passed peacefully, I having munched on a lunch of bread while my mother chatted with her friend the baker. She seemed very animated, but I paid scant attention and instead turned my gaze towards the streets outside.

There seemed to be an awful lot of tall people with impossibly long legs, and I dared not venture out, for the fear that I will get knocked over, or worse, get lost. To familiarize myself with the surroundings, I looked at the other stores that lined the street, and then looked up to see formidable walls, which encircled the next level of the city. There were either three or four more levels until the tower that rose far above the rest of Minas Tirith.

And I was suddenly filled with inexplicable fascination, which seemed strange, as I could see it every day from where my farm was located. I had an instant of incredible awareness, that the tower was something beyond wonderful, and that I would want nothing more than to climb to its summit and gaze at the world below. It seemed to beckon to me, somehow.

'Mommy,' I asked impulsively, 'can I climb the tower there?'

She first appeared startled, and then she smiled broadly. 'In the future, when your brother becomes a big strong guard of the King's city, you will. And it's "may I".'

Nothing more was said of this, and nothing more would be said for several years. However, I did climb the Tower in the future, the very near future. That night, in fact.

I thought I was dreaming. I even remembered lying down in bed after a day at Minas Tirith, so I reasoned that I was dreaming. It did not seem like a dream, though. The tall, handsome wooden doors seemed as real as the eggs I had eaten, perhaps even _more_ so. Their very essence seemed to speak of reality, as so did the white wall it was attached to. I looked up to see a tower resembling the one in Minas Tirith, although they were not quite the same. This one seemed somehow older, much older in fact. I could make out a few windows at the top, and I noticed a light coming from the crack underneath the doors. Being only five, I of course did not occupy more time with merely observing. Curiosity got a hold of me, and throwing away what caution I had, I opened the door.

There was nothing but stairs inside, so I climbed them. I noted with wonder that the whole structure seemed filled with light, although there were no windows along the way. When I arrived at the top floor, I felt less tired than perhaps I should have been, and the sight that greeted me had my attention at once.

The great room was circular, and very tall. Around the walls were six enormous (or so it seemed to me) windows. I could just peek into them if I stood on my toes, and it confused me to see they were all showing different scenes. Four showed forests or fields, masses of green when viewed from above, but the other two interested me. One showed a wide expanse of water, so vast that I concluded it must be the Sea, which I have never actually seen until now. The other showed a much less pleasant sight, a pale citadel a-glow with a sickening radiance. I dared not look into this one too long, and turned around to see an impossible sight above a dais in the middle of the room.

It was another window, but to my knowledge no windows ever floated, nor did they form in mid-air. This one showed a city divided by a river, and I knew it was Osgiliath for no city was more beautiful not any river more wide. The familiarity of the sight drove away my unease about the window, and amused myself with looking for familiar landmarks.

When I finally climbed down from the top room, I was reluctant to leave the Tower. However, I did eventually walk out the door, and found myself back at home. I was very excited about this finding of mine.

The next morning I told my mother of this, and she smiled and rubbed my hair, and told me I was very brave to climb such a tower. So for four years, I wandered into the Tower frequently, and figured out I could make the picture in the centre window move if I really, really wanted to. Naturally, I kept my mother updated on this, and gave her a description of the place. She never did seem worried; just congratulated me on my imagination, for floating windows could not possibly exist. Many things stayed the same. We sold our flour to the same baker, we went to Minas Tirith to sell it, and we even left on the same day every year.

Some time during these four years, I began to again have doubts about this imaginary place. My brother, who was the only one I confided this in, said that I fell into a sort of stupor every time I went to the Tower, and that it was impossible to wake me up. Being children we of course thought no more of this, and although I have tried to take him there many times, I have never succeeded.

A matter of more pressing concern to me at the time was the fact that my height was slowly surpassed by my brother. He began to call me 'little sister', and had somehow managed to acquire a most fascinating personality, a mixture of pride and bravado as I saw it. He became increasingly annoying in my eyes, and it was this breach that would ultimately land me in the most unpleasant place possible.

Every summer, my soldier father, of whom I was very proud, took my brother and I to Osgiliath for a month-long stay that involved riding pleasant boats. These years, though, we stayed on the western shore for the eastern was no longer stable. I, being more curious than my brother, learned that the Witch-King, chief Enemy of Gondor, has been preparing a siege for many years. However, my father was confident that their forces would not strike so soon, and would like to take us there one last time. Besides, he reasoned, we would stay on the fringes of the west side, and the enemy would not be able to cross the river due to the good Steward Denethor (1)'s powerful defences, and the courageous Captain Boromir (1).

So my brother and I found ourselves in a small stone house at the edge of the city, enjoying a pleasant lunch with our father, when one of his friends came in the door, armoured and evidently in great haste.

'What is the matter?' my father enquired.

'The Enemy has attacked! I volunteered to carry the message to the west side, for the east is besieged heavily, and would require aid. I have already told a captain, and would assume my mission is complete. May I stay for a moment?' he said this very quickly, and in one breath.

My father looked startled, but then a strange expression set in. 'You may, my friend. I, however, am going to help.'

(1) That would be Denethor I, not the Denethor in the Lord of the Rings books. That Denethor also had a son named Boromir.

Author's Note: This will get interesting soon. Very soon. In about one or two chapters is what I am aiming for.

Dreamless Wind: Sayre is a mortal, as you can see here, and yes, I'm trying to work a Saruman appearance into the plot (or lack thereof, at this point). Secondly, it is the _ideas_, the enchantments if you will, that are drawn to honesty. Within a Stone (or something else) they may be wielded by anyone. Glad you asked, though.


	5. Part Two Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

'You're going away?' my brother asked.

'Must you, father?' I enquired.

'Yes, children. Your father is a guard of Gondor. When the enemy attacks he must go and help his comrades, because it is his duty, but more importantly,' here he gave us a significant look, 'because he loves his freedom as much as you do.'

'But you'll come back, won't you? The good side will win?' We chorused.

'Of course.' He said, as if the very idea of losing was ridiculous. 'Of course I will. I am your father.'

Then he told us to stay here unless Gondor's men have retreated over the river, but he said it was highly unlikely, for they have been preparing for a long time and the men are plenty and strong, like he. Briskly he dressed himself in mail, took up his great sword and shield (which my brother has tried on many times), and walked out the door in his large metal boots. He walked down the road, and said back to us: 'Worry not, for hope will triumph over despair!' I never saw him in person again.

My father's friend sat at the table and helped himself to water, then after a short while left us also. My brother began to get very agitated. He looked out the door constantly, as if already seeing my father's return. I, however, prepared to go to the tower.

'I wish to go fight.' He stated simply, and so I stayed. I knew it has been his wish for many months, but I never thought that he would wish to fight during such a siege.

'You are not to fight. Father said we are to stay here.' I said as sternly as I could,

'You will, perhaps, but I am the son of a soldier and am strong enough to face the enemy.' He said proudly. 'Whereas you are my little sister.'

I shook my head. 'We cannot hope to face the enemy, any of them. Do you know who their leader is?'

'Just the Black Captain, so?'

'Just? _Just_? Brother, have you not listened to father's tales? The Enemy sits in his dark fortress of Minas Morgul,' here an image of the pale citadel flashed in my mind, and I shuddered, for that was what I imagined the fortress was like, 'and he directs his troops with magic so powerful, everyone despairs when faced with such sorcery. I imagine our most powerful can stand it, like our father, but certainly not you.'

'Of course I can stand it. If you won't have hope, then I will.'

'I do have hope. I was merely saying that so you might be aware of what we are up against.'

'So do you think we will win?'

I did not answer, for I did not know what to think and I did not like to make assumptions, nor have false hope. Then I was prevented from answering by two sounds: the clank of metal as my brother tried to take one of the kitchen knives, and the sound of a horse's hooves outside. We both froze, as we heard someone dismount noisily. The rider's shadow was now visible on the wall in front of us. The black-dressed man stepped through our doorway-

My brother jumped out, pointing the knife at the hooded intruder. 'Halt!' he cried courageously.

The man lowered his hood to reveal the baker from Minas Tirith. I sighed in relief. 'What are you doing here?'

He looked at us, and took in the empty room with a sweeping gaze. 'I am here to take you to somewhere safer than this. Your mother is very worried, you must know, and I must escort you away from here.'

At this my brother frowned. 'But my father told us to stay here-'

'He means well.' I interrupted. 'We would love to go with you, Uncle.' I had taken to calling him that after the last trip to the city, during which I had stayed at his shop and learned to bake. Over the years we have become good friends, and he made the most excellent cakes.

'We should not leave here. What if father comes back to find us gone? I will stay here, if you wish to leave with –"Uncle". Little sister, I can defend myself.'

The baker frowned in turn. 'You should come with us nonetheless, for it is getting less and less safe here by the minute. You will be no good for defence.' My brother placed his hands on his hips, his grey eyes stern and akin to my father's, when he was angry.

'I stay.' And that was the last word on the matter.

I went outside into the sunlight with Uncle. There was an enormous black horse tethered there, with numerous bags slung over it. I had never ridden one before, so the baker lifted me up into the saddle before swinging up himself and settling behind me. The horse galloped down the street, in the opposite direction my father had gone, and we were soon out of Osgiliath. I noticed that we were not going towards Minas Tirith, and I asked him about this.

'Gondor is besieged;' he replied, 'and we can no longer remain here. You do not know what will happen if you, yes, _you_, fall into the Witch-King's wicked hands. You are more important than you can imagine, dear. We are going to somewhere so you may be kept from outside harm.'

At the time I was very confused, but I trusted him. The only time when suspicion stirred was when I asked: 'does my mother know of this?' and hesitantly he replied 'yes.' I felt an inner something telling me that he was lying, like many other times when I listened to my brother insisting he had not been playing with my father's weapons. However, I dismissed this and we rode on silently north. We followed the Great River, and I could see black armies arrayed far away on the other side, already left far behind us, for his horse was very fast.

That night we camped in the woods besides the river, and I was very excited. The baker managed to light a fire with his pieces of flint, so we had warmth as well as the food he brought in his bag. Apparently, he baked some sort of waybread for the journey. I should have been suspicious of this preparation also, but I was not. I asked him how long will we travel.

'For many days, until we have arrived at the land of the Elves of Lórien. We travel close to the river Anduin, so we have no worries of getting lost. Doubtless you will learn many things on this trip, especially at its ending.' He smiled mysteriously.

Elves! They were the fair people I have seen but a few times travelling the roads to Minas Tirith. My father told me that they were very wise, and also friendly, therefore I was mightily glad when the baker mentioned them. I imagined their dwellings more beautiful than anything I have yet seen, and so with that pleasant thought, I slept peacefully that night, not realizing that I had gone back on my dislike of assumptions, and had made a dreadful one myself.

Author's Note: Going to the elves my foot…I wish I can pinch Sayre but unfortunately I can only let her tale wind itself.


	6. Part Two Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

During the next two weeks or so, we travelled north at great speed, following the river. We came across many smaller streams and rivers along the way, but the mighty horse was able to ford the lesser ones, and there was always an adequate raft waiting for us to use at the larger ones.

During that time, I could have had a lot to be suspicious of. Firstly, the rafts were simply too convenient to pass over. How was it that someone should so thoughtfully provide us with transportation at every one of the waters the horse could not cross? We were not following any particular road, to my knowledge, and were wandering more or less randomly through sparsely treed areas. I asked my companion about this fact, but he just smiled and said that either the fates or the people are kind to us.

Now that I look back on those days, I can see a lot more. Besides the waybread, he also brought a sword. It was not as long as my father's, but one must wonder as to how a respectable baker had come across such a weapon. Perhaps I should also have noticed that he brought two bedrolls only – two, not three if he were intending to take my brother along with us.

In the later days, when the bread ran low, he would leave me beside the fire at evening and return about an hour later with meat or fish. It was either he was an especially good hunter, or – as I suspect now – someone or something was helping us along. During the journey we had met no one, but I could have had the sensation of being followed.

I could have realized all of these things during that trip, and thus could have avoided much trouble afterwards. However, I recognized none of those save only one, and blindly rode along with the baker.

We went past the mouths of Entwash and by the falls of Rauros. We did not go next to it, but heard its mighty roar nonetheless. North of that the land became flat, and there were many streams and wetlands. We had to leave the river for a while as it swayed eastwards above the South and North Undeeps. We crossed the River Limlight, and finally, by the afternoon of the twentieth day, came within sight of Lórien. I did not know any of these places at the time, of course. Only through study much later did I come to learn their names.

'Behold!' my friend said, gesturing towards the woods to our left. They were a marvellous sight; the sun was just setting beyond the faraway mountains, and it lit the treetops up like bright torches. The river was turned into rippling silver, and the field in which we stood became suddenly tinged with gold. 'That is the Wood of Lórien, the realm of the Elves.'

My heart was very glad. We dismounted and began to unload the horse. 'We make for the woods tomorrow?' I asked.

'No, dear. Tomorrow we must leave across the river.' He pointed across the wide Anduin to a faint outline of trees, northeast of us.

I frowned and bit my lip. 'I thought we were going to the Elves of Lórien?'

Laughing, he finished unloading. 'Nay. Those Elves are fair, aye, but also very perilous to the types of you and I. We are going to the forest of Greenwood the Great.'

I was confused. Greenwood the Great…that was an old name, its current name being, yes, Mirkwood. There was something about Mirkwood that I felt I needed to remember, but I could not. Normally the tales one hears are practically useless, but when one needs to remember them, they are unable of being recalled, or so I found then. There was an evil stronghold in Mirkwood, wasn't there? No…that was Minas Morgul…I gave up soon after.

'Aye, Greenwood. There are Elves there, do you not know?' I was immediately interested. 'There is a great Elven King to the north of the forest, and he rules over a large kingdom…'

And so he spent most of that evening telling me tales of this Elven king and his people. I fell asleep soon after a few were told. The next morning we crossed the river in a roughly made boat conveniently placed by the water, and we travelled towards Mirkwood. We arrived at its borders on the afternoon of the twenty-second day since we left Osgiliath. During the whole trip, I had gone on by the assumptions that my parents were safe, and my brother had made his way back from Osgiliath, so I did not doubt that I would see them again. However, Mirkwood would ultimately prove me wrong.

That night I slept fitfully, and awoke often. Once, I thought I heard my companion holding a conversation with someone else, but I could not be sure. Either way, the next morning I awoke tired, only to find we were not to take the horse with us into the forest. Therefore, we each carried some of the load, and then sent the horse back to wander as it would in the fields. The baker wore his sword openly now, and he passed me a sheathed knife. 'For any attacking squirrels,' he joked. I tucked it into my belt, feeling distinctly proud.

Once we entered the forest, I clenched my hand on its handle tightly. Although it was sunny and clear a moment ago, it was gloomy in the forest. I soon became very unsettled, for the trees seemed to have horrific faces etched into their bark, or else appeared to be the tall, spindly legs of some alien creature crawling over us. The very air seemed dense and oppressed.

Worst of all, it was utterly silent. Not a bird chirped from within the thickly interwoven branches overhead, and there was no buzz of insects as would be expected. When we spoke it was in hushed whispers, for there seemed to be a dark presence in this forest. Soon I began to see eerie eyes peering from between the trunks and from the undergrowth (I did not know how anything could grow below the canopy in such darkness), and I sincerely hoped they were the stuff of my imagination.

We were following what appeared to be a little-used path in the woods. At some places it was grown over with plants, but he seemed to know the way and never appeared to be lost. As we moved further on, I began to dread this place even more, until I could not take the feeling any longer. I asked if we could go back. He smiled wryly.

'And why should we? Our destination is very near, I feel. We should reach it before the end of the day.'

'What day? 'Tis so dark here, I doubt I shall be able to tell day from night. Pray, lead us out of this cursed, timeless forest!'

But he held fast, and we continued on. A few hours after we stopped and ate lunch, the darkness seemed to come alive. It felt as if the very path behind us was being swallowed by it. It was so terrifying then, with the eyes that were _definitely_ real peering at us, and the gloom gathering itself into a single malevolent being. He spoke calmly: 'the sun is setting.'

When I thought I could not take any more, the forest suddenly fell away around us. I gasped.

We had come to a large hill in the midst of the forest, and the sky over it showed me it was indeed dusk. On top of a hill was a huge, sprawling shadow, which upon closer inspection was a fortress or castle of some sort, made entirely out of a sooty black stone. It had many doors of assorted sizes, and many towers poking out at irregular intervals and impossible angles. The place was a hideous sight, made worse by the shadowy figures that darted in the darkness. They seemed to be the ones whose eyes glowed eerily. The hill was tall and the figures far away, but I knew they sensed us.

'The Elves live _here_?' I asked in a hushed tone, subconsciously pulling my knife looser from its sheath. I could hear faint screeching, as if of large, horrible birds being tormented, and the sound seemed to come from the castle.

He laughed almost maniacally.

Author's Note: Oh dear…I told you she was naïve. I hope I got the travelling time right. Osgiliath to Mirkwood is about twenty-two days, right? Would you _please_ review?

Dreamless Wind: I suppose, but I doubt Sam is this…err, trusting.


	7. Part Two Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

When the last echoes of his laughter died away, he looked at me with a completely serious expression. In the rapidly dimming light it looked ghoulish, like some twisted version of a human face that came from freakish tales told at night.

'The Elves? Nay. Have you not been listening to me, dear? I believe they cannot shelter you with their pretty woods and strange minds. We are here at the dwelling of a very powerful being, a being many consider a god.'

My eyes widened, but I looked at the hill with doubt. It seems strange to me that a 'god' offering protection should reside there, of all places. However, I allowed myself to be led up the hill, for I did not wish to re-enter Mirkwood.

'Now,' he said as we climbed up, 'you must make yourself presentable in the Lord's court. I have travelled far to bring you, and you must appear to have been worth the trip.' His serious manner remained, but I sensed a trace of tension in his voice. Perhaps he did not like this place any more than I did. Still, I trusted his words, and believed that we would soon be inside somewhere safe. I inspected my appearance in dismay. The journey had been extremely tough on my clothes, and they were stained with mud, amongst other disgusting things. I imagined my black hair looked as if it had never seen a comb or a tub of water. Overall, I could see no way by which I could make myself 'presentable'.

However, that problem was resolved instantly when we stepped through the huge metal gates, just not the way I would have liked it.

I cannot think of an appropriate word for what greeted my eyes, so I am using this simple statement:

The place was _filthy_.

There was a huge courtyard surrounded by tall stone walls, where the ground was bare grey dirt. The dark shadows beneath the walls were filled with somewhat Mannish shapes and those eyes, the eyes peered at us, but especially, me, with open hostility. We had noticed a strong odour when still outside, but inside the walls it seemed unbearable, and seemed to be purposely ramming itself into my nose. I feared it was noxious, but then noticed with faint horror the ground was awash with foul liquids I thought to be animal refuse, though the thought of animals living in such a place was horrendous.

Most of all, the screeching noise was louder than ever before. It did sound like torment, though I should think not of birds.

_There are Men being tortured in there,_ I thought, and shuddered. I knew little of torture then, but naught else, or so it seemed, would cause such hideous screams. _There are Men being tortured, and I am going to join them._

I tried to back out, but we had already crossed the courtyard and the gates were closed behind us. There was only one way to go – through the shadowy doors before us. The doors opened silently, and we could not see the guards who opened them.

The volume of the cacophony within was so immense that it almost took my feet out from under me. It blasted past us into the yard, as if desperate to escape from the castle. I would have gladly followed it, had not something commanded me, no, willed me, to go inside. I knew he felt it too, for beads of sweat were forming on his brow. Finally, I took an irrevocable step into the castle and saw, by dim torchlight, another doorway at the end of a long hall.

I kept my eyes on that door, not daring to look anywhere else. There were horrible things outside of the light cast by the torches, and they were making noise that blended with the screaming in a terrible concoction. We reached the door, and it opened at his touch.

In this way we passed through two more halls. Each was quieter than the last, but somehow more sinister. There was a feeling in the air, nay, in the material of the world itself, that all good would be oppressed, that all beings will bend towards what lay beyond the next door, and the next. With every step I took, the feeling grew stronger, until I was certain I should never come out alive, or recognizable as myself.

At long last, we stood before a pair of plain black doors. They were tall, but otherwise unremarkable in appearance. However, we both knew they were more important than they seemed.

My companion turned to me and said: 'I am leaving you here. I cannot go beyond that door.'

Alas, I knew he could. He simply did not want to face whatever was to come.

'You cannot leave me here,' I spoke urgently and fearfully, 'not when we have come all this way together.'

'But I must. I hope we shall meet again, dear.' He kissed the top of my head and left. I knew not where he went, for he seemed to simply melt into the shadows.

Before me, the doors swung open outwards. Gathering up what courage I had left, I shut my eyes tightly and stepped through.

After a few blind steps through the door, I opened my eyes again and found myself in very large stone room. I looked up to see a very high ceiling, so high that its limit was barely distinguishable. Thick stone columns, very plain in appearance, supported it. Beneath my feet the floor was also of grey stone, and to my amazement it was only slightly dusty, and not grimy like the ones in the previous halls. The place looked immaculate; no sound of liquids tricking, no spears lying around, no mysterious objects rolling across the floor. There were, I sensed, beings standing just beyond the columns, but all seemed to be leaving the chamber. It did not _seem_ frightening.

However, it sure _felt_ that way.

The only way to describe the feeling is as if the air itself has been turned into despair, or as if I stood in the shadow of something large and threatening. The feeling was stronger than ever before. I finally looked to the end of the hall, and felt my organs clench.

There, sitting on an obsidian throne, was-

Actually, I was and am not sure what it was. However, my mind screamed in silent horror at the first sight of it. My feet, on the other hand, continued to walk towards it. The handle of the knife almost cracked in my iron grip. I tried to look away from it, but could not. This was what I saw:

A huge figure, decked in black armour, sat in the throne in a reclining position. It had on black gauntlets that were partly silver around the fingers. A crimson cape it had also, and its shoulder-guards were shaped like skulls. Against one side of the throne leant a weapon, which I took to be a short sword or a mace. On its head, or where its head should have been, was a thin crown. Between that and its shoulders, there was nothing, or rather, nothing identifiable. All I could see was darkness in that space, and yet it was not empty. I squinted; perhaps I believed seeing a face would make it less disturbing, but could not make out any features. It felt as if the being did have a face, but it was in another world. It felt surreal, and very, very terrifying.

My feet stopped in front of the throne, and seemed to freeze there. I was so close, I could feel power radiating from the being. Power, and the feeling of despair that shrouded these halls.

_This is it_, I thought, eyeing the mace – for mace it was, I saw as I stood closer – _it will kill me. It will kill me and feed me to the beasts in the shadows. I left Osgiliath for nothing, only to die in this dismal place. My father-_

To my surprise and utter horror, a deep and commanding voice, the Voice, replied. It seemed to come from inside my head, and I had a strange, sickening feeling its words would spill out of my ears.

_Silence! I will not unless I must. _

Author's Note: your reviews will help our narrator survive! Not that many of you would want her to survive, of course. In which case, your reviews will make the author write faster, and write more about the encounter with the Dark Lord!


	8. Part Two Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

I briefly wondered why it had shouted – although the word was not quite right – for silence when I had not uttered a single word. However, I realized a second later that he could magically – a hideous word to me from then on - read my thoughts, and I knew somehow that "he", was, in fact, a "he" and not an "it". I tried my best to stop thinking, but questions were floating around endlessly inside my mind; _who is he? What is he? Can he hear me now? Will he still kill me?_

And then he spoke, yes, _spoke_ out loud in that horrible Voice of his.

'Not so hasty, child.' I perceived that he smiled, and I shivered. 'First, bow.'

I had never felt less like baring the back of my neck to someone, but I bowed low anyway. I would have done anything at that point just live a little longer.

'Now, tell me who you are.' He leant forwards and propped where his chin should be with his hand. It appeared as if he was quite interested in me, and I could feel the chill of his gaze as he concentrated. I scrambled around mentally, trying to remember who I was.

'I…ah….'the words stumbled on my tongue. I averted my gaze to the grey floor, still aware of his overwhelming _presence_ in the room, vaguely wondering if he knew already. 'I am a-a citizen of Gondor.'

'Gondor.' He spat, and I jumped. The atmosphere of the room suddenly changed, and it felt filled with invisible wrath, so the torches flared and I could catch a glimpse of the figures in the gloom. I trembled in fear, expecting a sudden and bloody execution, but it was not so.

'Are you aware,' he said in a calmer tone, 'of the chief Enemy of Gondor?'

This was a surprise. 'Why, y-yes.' Did he not attacking Osgiliath – fruitlessly, I hoped – three weeks ago, and perhaps was attacking even now? 'He was the Witch-King of Angmar while he resided there, and is known as the Lord of the Nazgûl.' Then, a dreadful notion hit me. The being who sat before me, _he_ was not the Witch-King, was he?

_That is ridiculous,_ I reasoned. _He is waging a war, or at least conducting a siege, in the south, and thus cannot be here._

Meanwhile, the being stood up and walked towards me. His great metal boots made a thoroughly fell cranking noise with every step he took, so I was mortified by the sound and could not back away like I desperately wanted to. When he stood –towered, he was very tall- in front of me, he knelt down on an armoured knee, so that our eyes were at the same level. I felt like a mouse, nay, an insect, facing a particularly sadistic cat. Though he was now as close as I never wanted him to be, there still was nothing distinguishable between his shoulders and his crown.

'Nay,' he said softly, as if talking to himself. 'The Witch-King is not the Enemy.' He looked at me with that interested expression again, and I had a feeling he was reading more than my current thoughts. After a pause, he said:

'I am.'

He beckoned me closer with a gauntleted hand, as if an arm's length of space was not close enough for his study. I noted with muted horror that the each finger was tipped with a wickedly sharp point. They would be enough to pierce flesh and bone, wouldn't they? My eyes slid to his other hand, and it was a moment before my mind registered anything.

He was missing a finger on his right hand.

Had I been able to recall the legend of Isildur and Elendil, I may have recognized this for what it was. However, at the moment it only served to give me a particularly brave and particularly stupid idea.

_He could be hurt,_ I thought. _He is not invincible._

Then, I did something more courageous than all that I have ever done and most of what I will ever do.

Summoning all of my will that remained to me, I stopped my arms from quaking and pulled out the knife. It came out of the sheath with a limp sort of whoosh, and stopped just short of his outstretched fingers. 'No closer,' I said in what was hopefully a calm and stoic voice. It came out in a weak cross of begging and whimpering tones.

And the dark one laughed. The fell sound rang through the hall, so loudly that my ears could not stand it. It was cruel, and evil, and everything I never thought could be used to describe laughter. He easily plucked the knife out of my shaking hands and, to my great surprise, returned it to its sheath. I was too frightened and shocked to prevent him, or even to pay more attention to this particular act. Finally, he stood up again, and I felt some momentary relief.

'Run,' he said, both out loud and in my mind, so that I desired to cover my ears in discomfort. 'Run, for it is all that you will ever do; though you will not get far.' I forced myself around and saw that the door I came through was open.

I ran for my life, and did not look back.

I was dimly aware of grey columns flying by and a hard, grey floor beneath my fleeting feet. However, when I had passed the black doors, a hand shot out of seemingly nowhere and grabbed me by the wrist. I was suddenly wrenched from my flight and almost fell. The hand that grabbed me, I found, was attached to he who accompanied me here.

He dragged me through a door to the left of the hall, and down a set of long, straight stairs. These were sticky with some unknown substance, and a nasty smell of decay flowed through the damp air. There was a hallway at the end of the stairs, and he led me into a small, bare room. The walls were spattered with something ominously dark. He shut the door behind us.

'Who is he?' I asked, as soon as the man turned around. 'What is this place?'

'He is known as the Necromancer,' he replied, and sounded much more comfortable than when I last saw him, 'although you may eventually learn of his other names.' He said all of this as if he expected me to know it already.

'But he told me he was _the_ Enemy of Gondor!' I could feel a trace of hysteria in my voice, now that many realizations were beginning to surface. _And the Final Alliance waged war against the Dark Lord, and won, albeit at great cost._ Or something to that effect, as I remembered it. These tales of long ago still refused to be recalled completely, but this shred was enough.

'He has?' he looked quite relieved, almost happy. I could see nothing remotely joyful in the situation. 'Then I suppose you have guessed that he was the very Dark Lord of Mordor, who has now walked out of a legend?' And at that instant I knew this to be true, as incredible as it sounded.

'Then what am I doing here in his stronghold?' I asked with something bordering on panic. Then, I turned on him. 'You! You said that I would come to no harm, that I will be kept away from any evil! Filthy liar!' I drew my knife again, furious. He had, in the few moments, become the man I most loathed.

He appeared calm, and leant against the door. 'And indeed, you will not be harmed. The Lord has more glorious things planned, dear, than you will ever be able to fathom. I did not say that you would be kept from the dark like a spoilt treasure, only that you will not be delivered to the Witch-King.' Seeing my surprised expression, he continued with a smirk. 'You trust too much, dear. Trust too much, and assume too much. Even with the gifts you have, you manage to sink into situations much too deep for you.'

'And you? You led me knowingly into this, with your treachery and lies.' I pointed the knife resolutely at him.

'So?' He raised an eyebrow. 'I serve my Lord faithfully, I gather what he needs, and I will reap my reward in time.'

'What about Gondor?' I shouted, though he stood close. 'What about my _mother_? Where does your loyalty really lie?'

'I have told you.' He stated flatly, no longer retaining any trace of amusement. 'I serve my Lord.' In a swirl of his cloak he exited the room, and I lunged at him, only to have the door shut in my face.

I realized, too late as always, the strong wooden door had no handle or latch on the inside.

Author's Note: hope you have enjoyed this chapter! Sayre really is oblivious isn't she? Do you think Sayre's mother has an affair with the baker? Drop me a review, dear reader. Tell me my virtues, my faults, and your opinion.

Speaking of reviews, I would like to thank **Dreamless Wind** for being a faithful reviewer and general good author! Read her AU Rebirth now! It features the all-time heroes and Author Vesper's favourite Dark Lord!

P.S. I know it's Last Alliance. Sayre didn't.


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